


30 Day Fic Challenge: L

by thequietthatburned



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, L (Death Note) is a Dick, M/M, No Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequietthatburned/pseuds/thequietthatburned
Summary: this is just gonna be a composite of a bunch of L oneshots inspired by strange words i've found, enjoy!!
Relationships: Beyond Birthday/L, Beyond Birthday/L/Misora Naomi, L/Misora Naomi
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	30 Day Fic Challenge: L

re·nege

/ri’neg, ri’nig/

_verb_

1\. go back on a promise, undertaking, or contract.

L would sometimes fray around the edges, like a paper that means something, a letter that someone would run their fingers across until the ink would bruise their fingers and the oil from their skin would scent the words with a connection that was never meant to be there. Sometimes the flesh would tear from his bones, only a little bit, and he’d do something with a particular audacity. Like planning a funeral before preventing it. Or letting a case marinate in his “in progress” pile until it was rotten enough for worms to avoid. Maybe he’d chew suggestions up and spit them back as acid.

Today, the funeral scenario was in full swing. The could-be-corpse in question? L Lawliet. The mourner turned grave robber? Naomi Misora.

He’d been sitting in the same spot on the floorboards of their apartment bedroom for so long that it seemed like his knees had melted and hardened into immovable fixtures, bending his legs permanently into a bowed and monstrous position. The tea beside him might as well have been concrete. Cold and still. Gray.

Naomi hadn’t worked hard that day, which shone through in her relaxed attire and itch to do something meaningful. Idle hands make idle hearts, which are, historically, no fun. She cast her eye on L and saw not a detective working tirelessly in the name of Lady Justice, Savior of the Unfortunate, but a hands-on project. A challenge.

Everything about L was a challenge. To everyone. It was his biggest obstacle and most valuable asset.

“How long have you been at that?” She watched his almost-still form from their bed.

“This case? About 21 hours.” He paused. Gave her a glance. “No, 22.” L’s words were a sweet way to load Naomi’s pistol. He always made this too easy.

“You know, I bet you could solve it faster if you were in acceptable human condition.”

“That might be true,” said L, who was very experienced in twisting nonsense to make it sound like it meant something. Like an agreement. Like submission.

“Then rest. Aren’t you supposed to serve the truth?”

“I don’t serve anyone.”

“Not even justice.”

“I’ll serve justice when someone defines it in a way that’s worth something.”

“What are you going on about?” Her tone made L hesitate in his work for another moment. He squeezed his eyes together like he was shaking the dust out of blinds, and pinched the bridge of his nose. While still closing his eyes, he said,

“It’s too subjective. Fairness and all that. I promise you, if you go to any dictionary and look up ‘justice,’ the results will make you wonder why you ever chose to learn a language at all.” Naomi thought about that for a minute.

“That’s bullshit. This is bullshit. You need to go to sleep.” She stood and made her way to the door. “I’m making you some chamomile.”

“I’ll attend to that once I’ve solidified this accusation.”

“You have fifteen minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty.” She stood like a statuette in the doorway, perhaps of Artemis or another equally commanding presence, unrelenting with her bow drawn as a glare. The shadows across her face made her more concept than agent, a blurry form in the cusp of a dark room. L let out a noise that was a mixture of a groan and a considering ‘hm.’

“Deal. Twenty minutes.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, Misora. I promise.” The way in which he let the words form made it sound like very much the opposite, but Naomi never cared for scolding him. It would be unfair to leave him without a chance to wrap up loose ends, anyway.

After making a note of the time, she set a kettle on the stove. It was raining. She wondered if L knew. It was impossible to tell through his eyes of frosted glass whether he thought about the outside world at all during his working hours.

She moved the water into a mug and, after steeping the tea, added the appropriate amounts of sugar (minus some). The drink, an attractive burnt yellow color by now, unsettled in her hands every time she took a step. Naomi stopped before leaving the kitchen, maybe because this caught her eye, maybe because she was considering something else.

She left the tea on the table instead. The clock told her that only sixteen minutes had passed.

Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen…. _action_!

The room hadn’t shifted. Upon her return, L looked like dust would settle on his shoulders any second now. Naomi stared at him like he’d just done something unspeakable. Arguably, he hadn’t.

“Come on, L. Let’s go.”

“A few more minutes. Please.” He moved only his mouth to allow the words passage. Naomi glared.

“No. You promised.” She went to him and knelt by the packets of evidence logs or funeral rites or whatever else he had scattered about his hunched body. After flipping through one of them, at least to make her presence known, she felt a weight. He was staring at her. Dark eyes with dark lids. He could command an army with those eyes. She met his challenge.

He smiled. Very weakly. Like ink made of milk.

“I lied.” The way he said it made Naomi feel like she could touch her progress. This detective wasn’t stone. He never had been. He was movable. Lukewarm, skin and bones, irrevocably and heartbreakingly human, but amenable.

She _could_ touch her progress, actually. And she did. Returning his milk-ink smile with a black tea grin of her own, Naomi brought a hand to L and ruffled his hair.

“Come on. You can finish this later.” It was repetition. It was easy. He wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, but closed his laptop nonetheless.

The tea steamed on the table like she’d never left.

“Oh, it’s raining.” Confirmation. L Lawliet worked in a closed cell. Cytoplasm secure in a membrane. The windows were slick and unlit--it was around 6 p.m., but the storm outside cast a blue haze into the dusk that made everything seem darker. Were those the tears of angels or devils that L worshipped so?

They took their seats across from each other. L in his way, Naomi in hers. Just like co-workers. Just like lovers. He raised the cup to his lips. She folded her hands in front of her.

“So. What was that case about, anyway? If you want to talk about it, that is.”

“Only if you’d like to hear it.” His eyes were cast on the liquid. He was looking for something.

“Yeah, sure. Maybe you just need another angle.” It seemed like the right thing to say.

“Well.” L finished his sip and put the cup down firmly and directed an equally firm gaze deeper into the drink. “Eighteen victims. Both male and female, all of them at least upper-middle class, and…” he chewed on his thumbnail, “All of them have visited Minnesota in the past three months.”

It was too unexpected. He said it with too much gravity. Naomi couldn’t help it, she laughed behind her hand. L had to fight to not mirror this and gave her what was clearly a sardonic scowl.

“This is serious, Misora.”

“Right, sorry, go on.” She waved away his pout, which dissolved anyway when he took another sip of tea.

“Well, I know who the killer _is_. However, all of that hinges on this particular event, this party…in _Minnesota_.” He politely ignored her weak attempts at hiding her amusement. “So far, I can only prove that eight of the victims were there. That’s too low of a number. If I can prove the other ten were also present, then everything falls into place, but...” Naomi nodded along.

“Do you think the killer is done yet?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, how many people were at the party? If there are still more living guests, then wouldn’t that suggest…?”

“You aren’t doing a good job at convincing me to rest.”

“Right,” Naomi brought a hand to her forehead. “You’re right. This can wait.” As she spoke, L drank the remaining chamomile and stood.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Misora.” The detective was entirely unsubtle in his beeline for their room. Naomi watched him. Suspicious.

“You better be getting in bed,” she called when he had disappeared behind the door. There was no answer.

The door’s hinges squealed as Naomi opened it with a swift and single motion. L looked up at her, caught in her disappointment like a rabbit in a snare. He held the case files in his bony fingers.

“I was just uhm...organizing these...” But it was too late, and Naomi had pulled the files straight out of his hands.

“Five more minutes?”

“ _Lawliet_.”

“Yeah, I see your point.” He sat on the edge of the bed and teetered there until Naomi pushed him backwards. L stared at her, once more supremely offended, except lying on his back this time. Sprawled out like a frog.

Naomi sighed. She leaned over, and gave the detective a kiss on the forehead, which he turned down by pushing her lips away with his fingers. She didn’t move, but stared him right in the pupils.

It took them eight seconds to crack.

“No need to be so serious,” L said as Naomi laughed, letting herself down onto the blankets as well and leaning into him. His fingers curled around her wrist. A tether.

“Goodnight, L,” she said into his shoulder, although it was barely that time yet anyway.

“Goodnight, Naomi.”


End file.
